Cheryl Holt (24 page)

People regularly petitioned him, but he was surrounded by villains and scoundrels, and few were worthy of his support, so he hardly ever granted it. Yet, on this occasion, when he was incredibly eager, he couldn’t get the bloody recipient to so much as admit that she could use a tiny bit of help.

He hadn’t seen her in two days. Two days!

The winsome vixen had thoroughly ingratiated herself, had given him something to look forward to, had left him so impatient for her arrival that every afternoon at one o’clock he tarried like an imbecile at the back of the house.

Then,
poof!
No Emma.

How was he supposed to cope with such an eventuality? Didn’t the blasted female grasp that she’d grown important to his happiness? How dare she disappear!

Presumably, she was trying to teach him a lesson after the debacle with Caro. Wasn’t that just like a woman! Blaming the man for every infinitesimal thing that transpired! It wasn’t as if he’d invited Caro to Wakefield! In all the years he’d known her, she hadn’t committed a single impulsive act, and he wouldn’t speculate as to why she’d done so now. Whatever insane delusions were motivating her, he wouldn’t bother to unravel.

Besides, what did Caro’s presence have to do with
Emma? The two women, and the sections of his life they represented, were totally disconnected.

Caro’s stunt had had him so perplexed that he’d mishandled the encounter, but to be confronted by his alleged fiancée and his current lover! In the same instant! It had been a no-win situation.

He’d rudely abandoned Emma in the foyer, being dealt with by Caro as though she were a servant. Then, he’d had Caro crying in the parlor, after supplying an out-of-character tongue-lashing, the type of which he hadn’t previously dispensed, lest he wound her delicate sensibilities. By the time he’d been shed of her, and free to search for Emma, she’d departed.

Ian had shown her out, and the bastard had confessed that he’d lied and told her Caro was John’s actual betrothed! He’d deliberately chased her off so as to keep John from making a huge mistake.

As if John required Ian to manage his romantic affairs! Ian was no more proficient at maneuvering the feminine quagmire than John was, himself. For Ian to willfully hurt Emma was unconscionable. No wonder she was piqued and hadn’t stopped by again.

She had a moral disposition that was at variance with his own. In light of the kinds of knaves with whom he consorted, he’d never had to aspire to virtuous conduct or civilized behavior. He saw nothing inappropriate in having a mistress, various transitory paramours, and a fiancée.

But Emma wouldn’t see it that way. While she might rationalize their dallying despite his having a disreputable mistress, her ethical constitution would draw the line at a fiancée, which was foolish. He would be at Wakefield briefly, so they had a limited opportunity in which to explore the boundaries of their odd, exciting association. What goal was served by denying herself?

He urged his horse out of the trees and into the clearing, and he was increasingly disgusted as he received a close-up view of the dwelling she inhabited. The cottage was a hovel, too pathetic to be referred to as a
house
, and he couldn’t believe humans would reside in such a wretched lodging. Once he had her transferred to suitable shelter, he would have the sorry shack torn down so there wouldn’t be a future pretext to offer it to another unlucky occupant.

No one observed his approach, but from the isolation of the area, he suspected they had infrequent visitors, so there was scant need to watch for guests. He tied his horse to a nearby bush and marched to the door, knocking briskly.

It was opened by a girl who had to be Emma’s sister. She was pretty, young, with Emma’s curly hair and beautiful brown eyes, an exact duplicate of how Emma must have been as a child. Lank and gangly—like a colt learning to stand on its feet—she was perched on the cusp of womanhood. She would develop into a beauty, like her older sibling. How tragic that she had such dismal prospects.

“I am John Clayton, Viscount Wakefield,” he announced as she gawked, astonished.

“How do you do,” she answered politely. “I’m Jane Fitzgerald.”

“Hello, Miss Jane.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’m here to call upon your sister, Emma. Is she at home?”

“Yes. Won’t you come in?”

She held the door, and he started in when Emma popped up, blocking his entrance.

“What are you doing here?” she barked.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Didn’t your brother give you my message?”

“Of course he did, but I didn’t listen.” He smiled
again, just for her. “I
never
listen to others. It’s a failing of mine; you know that.”

He’d anticipated that his self-deprecation would coax a smile in return but, dispirited and resigned, she simply studied him as if he were an interesting curiosity. In the ramshackle setting, she seemed so altered, so dejected and beaten down, and she sighed painfully, the weight of her world crushing her, and he suddenly felt ashamed. For who he was. For what he was.

Incessantly, she’d chided him for not appreciating all that he had, for refusing to acknowledge the blessings his position had bestowed, and he’d laughed off her admonitions, but he couldn’t any longer. He’d never conjectured as to what befell a woman when the man who’d been her sole support died, so he was disturbingly startled by the glaring evidence.

She was so remarkable, and to be apprised of her seedy environs was shocking and discouraging. How could he utilize his superior status and affluence to her advantage? If he couldn’t exploit his wealth to improve her circumstances, what was the use of any of it?

“You should go,” she churlishly declared as Jane interrupted.

“We were about to sit down to our daily meal. Won’t you join us?”

Appalled by the invitation, Emma maintained, “The viscount is much too busy.”

“No I’m not,” he said, and he turned to Jane, whom he now regarded as a valuable ally. “I’d love to stay.”

Emma was furious, and he brushed past her before she could slam the door. As he walked by, he stroked a comforting hand across her waist, hoping she’d perceive the gesture to mean that he’d take care of everything.

Adjusting to the gloom, he critically surveyed the incongruous sight. There was a main room, a bedroom
in the back, and a loft overhead. Crammed into the diminutive space were several tasteful pieces of furniture, indication of a prior familial prosperity. An oak dining set, a matching hutch, a sofa, embroidered doilies and knitted throws, were scattered about on an earthen floor.

Emma misunderstood his scrutiny and felt constrained to proclaim, “We didn’t take any items from the vicarage that didn’t belong to us.”

“I never considered that you might have.”

“These things were part of my mother’s dowry.”

She glanced away, unable to face him, and with the intensity of his gaze, he tried to compel her to look at him, but she wouldn’t, so he shifted his inspection beyond her, to the corner. By a boarded window, their mother—an aging, serene, gaunt woman—rocked repetitively in a chair, blindly peering outside through the cracks, not seeing any of the bright summer sunshine.

Jane whispered, “That’s Mother. She’s been having a bad day.”

Jane was abashed, as well, by their reduced resources, but she strove to cover it by chattering nervously and interminably, plainly trying to smooth over the tension between himself and Emma. She pulled an extra chair up to the table, held it out, and he sat.

There were two servings of soup, dished up in fine china bowls, with silver spoons laid out—remnants from a more plentiful period. Jane ladled a third bowl and placed it before him, then seated herself.

Unmoving, Emma remained across the room, until Jane said, “Emma, come. Your soup will get cold.”

Emma hesitated, wanting to decline but not having the heart to disappoint Jane. She sidled over and sat, too, still without meeting his eye.

A dreadful hush descended, but Jane was determined
to be cheerful and fill the void the two adults had created. “Milord Wakefield, thank you for the treats you sent me.”

“What treats might that be, Miss Jane?”

“You remember: the scones and other pastries. Emma mentioned to you how much I like scones, and you insisted I have the whole batch.”

She was so earnest in her belief that he’d recall the boon, that he acted as if he knew precisely to what she referred. “Oh, yes.
Those
treats.”

Tendering no comment, Emma blushed a blazing red, as Jane obligingly quipped, “We washed the tablecloth, and Emma brought it back. Good as new. Isn’t that right, Em?”

Emma stirred her soup. “The viscount doesn’t want to hear about it, Jane.”

“Yes I do,” he responded. “I’m absolutely enthralled.” He wanted to get a reaction out of her, but short of poking her with a sharp stick, he couldn’t figure out how. “Next time you’re hungry for pastries, Jane, have Emma inform me, and I’ll deliver them by the basketful.”

Jane stared at him solemnly, then gushed, “I knew you were kind. I told Emma I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t.”

What a sweet girl! How distressing to have her living like this. The quiet grew, once more, and he waited, attentive, while his female companions ate, then he dipped his own spoon only to discover that the paltry concoction was a flavorless broth. Not so much as an onion was floating.

Were they starving in addition to their other troubles? Emma was very slender, but he’d assumed she had a slim build. He’d never supposed that her thinness might be caused by hunger. The likelihood outraged
him. Would she have kept such a ghastly exigency from him?

He’d thought they were friends!

Exasperated, he pointed out, “There’s nothing in here but carrots and water.”

“Yes,” Jane said optimistically, “but we pretend it’s a delicious stew, packed with yummy vegetables. Then, it doesn’t seem so awful.” She halted and beamed at her sister, not grasping how much she’d revealed. “What shall we imagine is in it today, Em?”

Emma was paralyzed with mortification, and she muttered, “Would you excuse me, please?” Tears cascaded down her cheeks, and she stumbled from her chair and scurried outside.

John sighed heavily, unsure of how to proceed. Emma was proud, and she’d been humiliated at having him behold her dilemma. He wanted to go after her but doubted she would welcome the solace.

The stream of sunlight through the opened door confused Mrs. Fitzgerald, and she rose and blankly gaped around as if she might go, too. Jane went to her and efficiently settled her in the rocker, then she returned to the table as if naught were amiss.

“Do you ever have anyone in to watch over your mother?”

“No. Who would?”

“One of you must always be with her?”

“She can’t be alone. She wanders.”

Adversely affected by the news, he nodded, recollecting the occasions he’d trysted with Emma, when he’d pressured her to delay her departure. She’d repeatedly alluded to her obligations, but he was an aristocrat who could snap his fingers and have others do his bidding, so her travails had seemed nebulous and insignificant.

“Do you have any other food in the house?” He
hadn’t needed to inquire. A visual scan clarified that the shelves were bare.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Emma delivered a baby a few days ago,” Jane clarified, “and the father promised to drop off some victuals in payment, but he didn’t, and Emma doesn’t like to pester people over what they owe her. She says they give what they can, when they can, and we mustn’t be greedy.”

“I see.”

And he really, really did. She’d starve before she’d ask others for help! The foolish woman! He was fuming, but he hid his temper from Jane. “Emma was upset; I should probably talk with her.”

“Tell her not to be sad,” Jane beseeched him. “I hate it when she’s sad.”

“I’ll tell her,” he gently vowed.

From the stoop, he glimpsed her strolling aimlessly down the rutted lane that led away from the cottage. He rushed to catch up with her, which wasn’t difficult, and momentarily, he was behind her. She’d discerned his presence, but she didn’t slow down.

“Emma—”

“Go away.”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you up at the manor,” she bitterly queried, “entertaining your fiancée?”

“I’m not engaged.”

“Not
engaged
, indeed!” she scoffed.

“It’s true. Caroline would like to be, but it won’t happen.”

“Do be silent!” She glowered at him over her shoulder. “Next you’ll be contending that she doesn’t understand you.”

“She doesn’t.”

She rolled her eyes and continued walking. “You’re embarrassing yourself. And me. Stop it.”

He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her waist, arresting her forward progress, and she rewarded him with a hard elbow to his ribs, but he didn’t release her.

“Hold still, you vicious minx.”

“Leave me be.”

She struggled against his restraint but not vigorously, for the fight had gone out of her. As if her bones had melted, she slumped into him.

He embraced her for a long while, kissing her cheek, her hair, as the sounds of the forest billowed around them. She was crying, but she didn’t try to mask her tears or swipe them away, and he hugged her tighter.

“Why didn’t you confide in me?”

“About what?”

“That you were on the eviction list?”

She balanced the back of her head on his shoulder. “What good would it have done?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t change my mind?”

“No, I didn’t,” she truthfully admitted. “Besides, I don’t want your assistance.”

“Big, strong Emma Fitzgerald!” he scolded, but kindly. “She doesn’t need anybody!”

“Especially not you.” She gazed up at the sky, exhaling a breath of anguish and despair. “Do you ever wish you could be somebody else? That you’d wake up one morning and everything about you would be different?”

“Yes, I wish it all the time.”

“So do I,” she choked out. Then abruptly, she confessed, “I stole those blasted scones. It was that afternoon when you had your bath, and your mistress was
with you in your dressing room. I was angry, and there was so much food—more than you could ever eat!—and I was jealous. So I dumped it all in a tablecloth and stole it for Jane, and I lied and told her it was a gift from you. That’s how pathetic my life is! I’ve taken to thieving leftovers from rich peoples’ houses!”